


The One About the Hooker with Dysentery

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Usual Suspects (1995)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-17
Updated: 2003-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1635845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Earlier this year Mr. Fenster and Mr. McManus hijacked a two-prop cargo flight out of Newark airport. The plane was carrying gold and platinum wiring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One About the Hooker with Dysentery

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Katie

 

 

Working with Fenster is like visiting the same hooker every night: soothing in its repetition, like any addictive vice, but a lot less hassle then having a steady girl or job. Women are always too much work, and McManus has five fingers that can do the job just as well as any chick or any outsider. He sticks with Fenster because they know each other and there are no surprises. 

They're uncomplicated. 

Professional criminals don't need additional complications, and all relationships are complicated. 

Even the ones that aren't. 

* 

The cab of the van smells like too much aftershave and stale cigarette smoke, and he would roll down the window to let in some air but it's cold as fuck tonight in that way that it always is in Jersey at three in the morning. If he didn't love his job so fucking much there's no way he would work these kind of fucked up hours. Of course he makes his own hours since the Criminals Local #305 doesn't really have set hours, and it's not a job in the traditional medical benefits sense of the word, but what the fuck ever. 

The N.J. Turnpike is an endless stretch of pot-holed hell that's seriously unhelpful to fleeing the scene of a crime, and it's only after they're 30 miles away that the tick in McManus' jaw subsides and he unclenches his ball-breaking hold on the steering wheel. 

He's not stressed though; he loves this shit. 

There's nothing quite like completing a successful heist, and the rush is only amplified by the impossible number of laws he tries to break at any given time. His all-time high was sixty-three laws for a two-day job. Everything from jaywalking and parking in a loading zone, straight through to breaking and entering, assault with a deadly weapon and second degree murder. 

It was a good job. 

One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, gonna break some more. Five, six, looking at three to six. 

He whistles a shrill tune and beside him Fenster tenses momentarily, but McManus doesn't flinch as they drive by the state trooper and the unlucky bastard on the side of the road. 

There's no way he's going to get pulled over for speeding _now_ , which is exactly why he lets up on the gas. Luck has nothing on Murphy's Law, and if he got tagged by the cops, his parole officer would shit a brick. Of course, he's not really supposed to have left Manhattan anyway, but his parole officer can suck his dick any night of the week as far as he's concerned. McManus'll even wrap his dick in a bow with the bench warrant for all he cares about breaking parole. He has to earn a living, that's what everybody's always saying, and that's what he's doing. It really shouldn't matter if it's legal or not, at least he's happy with what he does, that's a lot more than can be said for most of the bastards out there. 

McManus loves breaking and entering, and planning and executing like crackheads love the pipe. He has a gift and he's using it. Not everybody has what it takes to be a professional thief, if they did then the jails wouldn't be nearly as full as they are. 

Beside him, Fenster squirms in his seat, looking as though he needs Pepto Bismol or a sedative. He's rambling about something his dry cleaner did, and he keeps fucking with the radio station. Fenster is truly the poster child for A.D.D, and McManus is going to tie him to the grille in a minute. They have plenty of wiring in the back. 

"What the fuck is your problem, man?" he asks, slapping Fenster's hand away from the radio dial. 

Fenster mumbles something about Jersey and the cops at the Newark train station. "The whole state is like a fucking precinct," he says, waving his arms about like he's fighting an invisible foe. "The cops are everywhere, all the time, they're like the all-seeing eye that my aunt put on me when she caught me stealing from her purse." 

"Leave the voodoo at home," McManus chides. "I don't have time for that shit tonight. Next you'll be talking about Keyser Soze and we'll get nabbed by the pigs." 

"What the fuck you wanna bring him up for?" Fenster moans. "He's a fucking psycho witch doctor is what he is, man. He's like a curse." 

The van lurches into a particularly large pothole, and for a minute McManus is afraid they're about to have a blowout. It would be just their luck to get stuck with a van full of hot shit. 

Keyser fucking Soze strikes again. Like the Boogeyman. 

The low hum of the radio and Fenster's babbling are the only thing keeping McManus from falling asleep at the wheel, even though he's high on caffeine and the post-job buzz. He has no idea what the fuck they're going to do with ninety grand in platinum and gold wiring, but that's not really the point. Most of their jobs don't have points, except to keep them amused and make them a fast buck or two, so there's no reason for this job to be any different. 

He'll find a fence when they get back to the city. 

"All cops look the same." Fenster comments. "Dark hair, dark eyes, they're like a box of cookies." 

"Here," Fenster waves an imaginary carton in his periphery. "Buy a box of cops." 

"Shut the fuck up," McManus snaps, batting Fenster's hands away. 

"What you gotta yell at me for?" 

"Just shut up," he repeats, ignoring the hurt look that flitters across Fenster's face. 

He's not in the mood to humor him right now. 

It's not that all cops look the same, it's that all cops look like Keaton, and McManus doesn't want anything to do with anybody who looks like Keaton. 

He doesn't want anything to do with anybody who wants him to go straight. 

Fenster would never make him go straight. He loves their life almost as much as McManus does. 

Hell, once upon a time, even Keaton loved their life as much as they do. All that going straight shit for some bitch is just a facade. McManus knows it is. 

The first time McManus met Dean Keaton, Keaton looked over his shoulder the entire time McManus was trying to feel him out for work, and McManus let him. After all, he was the famous Dean Keaton. He'd fucked over half the cops on the Upper East Side; McManus was a big fan. 

The second time they met, Keaton didn't even remember his name, and that night McManus followed Keaton home and made him remember his name. 

The third time they met, Keaton called him by his first name, and nobody calls him Michael except his mother and his sister. Even his old man used to call him "useless bastard." McManus never called his father anything at all, because really, his dad was a stupid fuck and dying from the drink was the best thing he ever did for his family. He's not even sure if Fenster knows his first name; he's not even sure if Fenster knows his own first name the more he thinks about it. He's not a fucking idiot, he's just Fenster. 

The point being that nobody ever calls him Michael. Ever. 

There's another State Trooper up the road stopping random cars, and McManus's breath doesn't hitch at all even though his heartbeat accelerates slightly. Fenster slouches down in the passenger seat until he's practically in the footwell. 

"He's got no probable cause," McManus says to the windshield as the Camry three cars in front of him pulls onto the shoulder. "Stop acting like you did something wrong." 

"Who needs P.C.?" Fenster says sliding back onto the seat. "You're a criminal." 

"So are you." 

"Now why'd you got to go and do that? I'm trying to make a point!" 

Neither man says a word as they slowly drive by the blue and white on the side of the road. The cop nods his head for them to pass, and under his breath McManus cheerfully curses his entire family. 

Once they're past the roadblock, McManus puts the pedal down and Fenster goes back to mumbling in the seat beside him. Most people don't understand what the hell Fenster's saying when he mumbles, but McManus knows. They understand each other like that. He just complains to give Fenster shit. 

"What the fuck are you sayin'?" he asks. 

Fenster's eyes look even heavier than normal at this hour of the night. "That joke -- the one about the hooker with dysentery." 

In a lot of ways Fenster is like a kid, needing to be coaxed and prodded. Sometimes McManus humors him because it reminds him of David. Sometimes he doesn't. 

Keaton never humored him. 

However, Fenster is nothing like Keaton, and that's why they're still doing jobs together. Why they're still together, period. McManus has already had a dad, he doesn't need a role model or any model; he needs an independent partner. 

He needs someone to be his hooker. 

McManus shakes his head; he knows where this is going. It's the same every job. "What about it?" 

"You ever heard it?" 

McManus sighs. He's only heard it fifty times. It's the same story, with the same cast, same suspects, on a different night. But all he has to do with Fenster is humor him; nothing else is required. 

"No, tell me again, how's it go?" 

-end- 

Notes: Some dialogue lifted directly from the movie 'The Usual Suspects." All rights reserved by 20th Century Fox and Bryan Singer. No infringement meant. 

 


End file.
